


Just Because You Can't See It...

by sallysorrell



Category: Sweet (2000)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...doesn't mean it isn't real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Because You Can't See It...

Sweet leans over to peer into the camera lens.  He drags Stitch’s hand up into focus, happily announcing, “and _this_ is my partner!”

Stitch would wince, if the camera was anything more real than Poppy was.  

The imaginary camera crew provide the invented attention they both need to feel comfortable.  Otherwise, Stitch would be indecisive, and Sweet would be overly impulsive.  Cameras are marked throughout the house, to drag them toward a functionally dependent middleground.

Regardless, Stitch remains inept at expressing his needs and his feelings.  He stands at the mouth of the corridor, digging through his parka pocket for his keyring.  Sweet continues charming the camera, wringing Stitch’s wrist.  All Stitch has said to prompt this was a mumbled variation of ‘my rent’s up tomorrow.’

Stitch’s flat is comfortable in a sterile sort of way.  Meticulously marked but poorly indexed mixtapes wait in a box beside the door, with a jacket thrown over them in place of a lid.  The carpet has crooked hoover-lines and smells vaguely of bleach.  The walls are papered with grey geometric patterns, which Stitch got permission to put up years ago.

Sweet had been there before, and always had a way of making it feel more like home.  As soon as the evening elapsed, ‘home’ would mean ‘Sweet’s flat above his shop.’  Stitch slips out of his parka and sets it over the cassette box.  Sweet stares up at him, eyes wide.

“Is that all that’s left?” he asks, pointing at the box.  

Stitch nods in confirmation.

“I can carry that, and you can get the cameras,” Sweet continues.

“Right,” Stitch says blandly, “Fine.”

Without any sort of whispered goodbye, Stitch shuts the door behind them, locks it, and leaves to push the keys under the landlord’s adjoining door.

He is silent for the entire walk to Sweet’s place, balancing imaginary cameras between his arms while Sweet skips in front of him.  The door is always unlocked, there, and Sweet swings it open enthusiastically.  The box of tapes is left in the shop downstairs.

“Done,” Sweet chirps.  

Stitch watches him, and can’t capture any sort of explanation.  For why he’s here, or for why he’s so painfully in love with the foolish figure in front of him.  He blinks and allows Stitch to take his hand.  

“Shouldn’t we celebrate?” Sweet’s voice is expectant, but not in any way unhappy.

It would take Stitch too long to point out that every box they had previously brought over got its own little party.  Instead, he shrugs and follows Sweet up the stairs.

“Oh,” Sweet says once they’ve reached the top, “set the cameras down anywhere, so you can carry me to our bedroom, yeah?”

“Yeah?” echoes Stitch, with the same tone exactly.  He hasn’t heard or processed any of this, but recognises it’s his turn to speak.

“And this is _our_ flat,” Sweet says to Stitch’s arm, as he kneels and pretends to put the cameras down.

Sweet’s flat is much warmer, in every way.  There are windows with bright curtains, thick carpets topped with decorative rugs, and countless shelves of forgotten records.  Sweet’s clothes are always spread around the floor of his bedroom.  No two dishes in the flat match, and Stitch always offers to clean them but never actually does.  

Sweet reaches one arm over Stitch’s neck, rushes to clasp his hands together, and jumps to pull himself up.  Stitch stumbles backward, with his reflexes choosing to catch Sweet instead of steady himself.  

“What’re you doing?” he asks.  

Sweet smiles and repeats his plans for the evening.

“You carry me to our bedroom,” he says, “and you ‘n’ me can figure it out from there.”

Stitch blushes and takes one shaky step forward, while Sweet continues in his most encouraging voice.  Stitch is surprised at how light the other man is.

This does not stop him dropping Sweet, halfway to their room.

He says ‘shit’ and ‘sorry’ at almost the same time, while Sweet giggles at him and tries to slide back into his apologetic arms.

“’M not made’a glass,” he offers.

“So I didn’t break you, but are you hurt at all?”

Sweet looks himself over and shakes his head.  Stitch insists on adjusting their positions, tightening his arms together over Stitch’s waist so it doesn’t happen again.  They reach the doorway, and Sweet is radiating in his own impossibly self-satisfied way, stroking Stitch’s hands and stomach and wherever else he can reach.

“Better switch the cameras off,” he says, as Stitch sets him down gently on the bed.

He agrees and does so.

* * *

Stitch never gets tired of the wordless - and breathless - conversation which always follows.  It allows him to continue wallowing in failed self-expression, while Sweet smiles enough for both of them, and looks around the room as if he’s never seen it before.

He can feel Sweet nuzzling into his side, reaching both hands beneath the duvet.  Stitch glances down at him and tries to speak.

“All right?”

It is a genuine question this time, not a confirmation or a greeting as they return to their ordinary world.

“I’m fine,” Sweet insists.

Stitch has never really noticed how much larger he is than his partner, not when they’ve gone out dancing, not when they’ve sat close beside each other in restaurant booths, not when they’ve kissed in empty train coaches, never.  He sometimes thinks he is the least observant person in the world, until he first saw Sweet and fell in love with him, for exactly this reason. 

He manages to say none of this, because Sweet is staring at him again.

“Weren’t on purpose,” Sweet continues, “I know you’d never do it on purpose.  Not like I did that time I punched you - remember? - and then kicked you, as well, when you were already down.”

This is something Stitch thinks about often, but his recollection is clouded by a self-administered haze.  He never gives himself faith, only insecurity.  He thought he rather deserved the fight, and questioning himself at all only served to confirm this.

He means to say, “I still hurt you,” but only gets, “Still hurt.”

Sweet nods and finds his hands under the blankets.  

“So I got to sit ‘ere in bed with you, and hold that hot water bottle on your tummy while you slept.”

“My ribs,” Stitch corrects him. “Where are you going with this?”

“Dunno,” Sweet admits, “but I’m never gonna do that again, am I?  I only want to make you feel better and better and better until you believe it.”

Stitch has not suddenly learned how to dig up and define his feelings; they’re still a murky puddle inside him, which Sweet is more than happy to wade through.  He may be feeling fine, already.  He wouldn’t know unless Sweet told him.

All he can do is recognise his luck.  


End file.
